


Professional Secrecy

by DoreyG



Series: Professional Secrecy [2]
Category: Superman: The Animated Series
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Arguing, Attempted Murder, Communication, Dating, Episode Tag: The Main Man, Episode Tag: Two's a Crowd, F/M, Flirting, Forgiveness, Genderswap, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Lana may well be insane, Lois isn't Paid At All for This, Massage, Mercy Isn't Paid Enough for This, Past Relationship(s), Phone Calls & Telephones, Secret Identity, Sloppy Makeouts, Superheroes, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-12 01:38:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3339125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mercy remains silent for another second, another stretching moment. His teeth grit harder, his hands start to curl. He prides himself on being a patient man, usually, <i>but</i>-</p><p>And then she turns to him, just slightly. Looks at him from below the dip of her usual cap, so neat and perfect upon her head, and speaks lowly – as if trying not to be detected, “you honestly don’t know, sir?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Whoa.”

It’s the laugh that gets him to look up, of course. He generally doesn’t much approve of laughter, too many boring dinner parties with giggling socialites and chuckling businessmen, but he is willing to make certain key exceptions. His own droll rumble, for instance. Mercy’s seal-like bark, upon occasion. _Clara’s_ … Clara in general, to be perfectly honest. Clara’s giggle, Clara’s laugh, Clara’s attempt at a wry snigger that always turns far too genuine halfway through in a way that makes his heart skip a beat and his mind lose all sanity.

He won’t make a habit of it, he promises.

“Hello,” he greets wryly instead, standing up from his desk and sliding his hands casually into his pockets – the stance of a fond boyfriend, he hopes, as opposed to an errant businessman out to lunch, “let me guess, Mercy?”

Clara stands at the door, her jacket slung over her arm and her hair drawn back in a casual ponytail. Her eyes flash as she examines the damage, with an oddly guilty look upon her face. Casual wear, so she must be here on personal business. A good thing, he recalls not a single attempt at an interview between them going well. She seems less tenacious than Lois on the surface, but she’s got the mind of a shark underneath. 

He clears his throat, ever so gently, as she keeps staring at the largest hole in his floor. Newly refurbished, too. He’s lost _so_ much money on that sort of thing since Superwoman came to town.

“…Uh, yeah. Of course, who else would let me in the building?” Almost as much as he’s spent on subtle gifts for Clara, though he minds that far less. Surprised, he does _love_ surprising her, she blushes slightly – gives a gentle giggle as she comes further into the room, “let me guess, Superwoman again?”

“Indeed,” and, yes, the giggle does still work on him. He feels himself softening, despite the long day at the office. Feels himself yielding. Even feels a _smile_ starting to quirk at the corner of his lips, “apparently she’s taken to fighting space hobos now.”

Clara snorts. Covers it well, shakes her head like the _lady_ she sometimes pretends to be, “on your property?”

“Half of Metropolis is my property, my dear,” he sighs, shakes his head as she arches an eyebrow at him – a humble boast, she’s so _very_ good at calling him out on them damn near every single time, “but, yes. She does seem somehow driven to ruin my own personal property at every turn. It’s growing obnoxious.”

Clara nods, smirks that secret smirk that drives him _mad_ \- in as good a way as insanity can be taken, of course, “maybe she has a crush on you.”

“Good god,” he sucks in a deep breath before he can stop himself, places a hand over his heart, “ _no_.”

“Maybe she _does_. Maybe she’s just pulling your pigtails-“

“Clara-“

“Stealing your lunch money-“

“Clara, please-“

“Trying to get you to _like_ her.”

“ _Clara_ ,” he takes in a deep breath, barely hides a smirk at her near-cackle. The thought of Superwoman having a crush on him… Does not disturb him quite as much as it should, perhaps, but is still not a subject that should be dwelled upon in any detail, “can we please stop discussing how Superwoman may, or may _not_ , have a crush on me and move on to more pleasant subjects?”

“Your wish is my command, hon,” Clara purrs… And is suddenly, in the blink of an eye, at his side – stroking the side of his face in a way that almost, _almost_ , distracts from her disturbing ability to move without him seeing, “what would _you_ like to discuss?”

“You should be an Olympic sprinter,” he murmurs distractedly, and only shakes his head at the frown that briefly quirks her lips, “you’d beat Usain Bolt any day. I haven’t seen you for a while.”

“Ugh, only _you_ would regard that as more pleasant, Lex,” she rolls her eyes, but he waits it out with a patient smirk of his own. Clara, bless her, is just too _nice_ to pull off a sincere roll of her eyes – it’s a bit like all those posh boys at his various schools trying to swear, but far more endearing, “Perry was keeping me busy, again. I’ve been rushed off my feet writing articles on five-hundred subjects at once.”

He arches his eyebrow, tilts his head at her until her lips quirk into a slightly annoyed smirk, “for an entire week…?”

“It gets like that sometimes,” she sighs - shakes her head, the annoyance falling away as quickly as it came. Another thing about Clara, she’s also far too nice to hold grudges for any significant amount of time, “I’ll be reaching Lois’ total soon, just you watch me.”

“I’ll watch your dismembered limbs being pulled from the river, knowing Ms Lane,” he offers wryly, and watches as Clara’s entire face opens up with a shocked laugh – as her eyes brighten, and her skin flushes, and she looks so damned _happy_ that he finds the slightly sickening urge to be a better man rising up within him before he can do a thing to stop it, “you couldn’t even leave a message?”

Clara’s laugh fades, Clara falls back to looking oddly guilty yet again. He feels oddly morose at the sight of it, but crushes that urge ruthlessly – it’s for the best, really, he’s off-guard enough as it is, “I… Meant to. Sorry, I lost track of time.”

“I can understand that,” he offers gently, trying to ignore the sense that he’s already completely lost, “but…”

“Yeah,” but Clara is already stepping forward and he, alas, already knows it in his heart. She smiles up at him, presses her cool hand to his cheek – her lips, when she leans up, are as soft and tempting as ever, “I know, Lex. I’ll try better next time.”

Better next time.

Oh, and he _could_ ask for more but the sweetness of her lips is just too much to resist. He can’t help but lean in, to taste her as deeply as he always wants to. Summer, and that soft hint of memories long forgotten. He still, even after several months, can’t quite bring himself to resist her – and, more troublingly, he doesn’t even _want_ to.

“Next time,” he mumbles distractedly, as he runs his hands up her back and starts to reverse them slowly towards the desk, “how much do you actually _want_ to beat Lois, may I ask?”

“A bit,” she laughs breathily, and easily goes with him – pressing him back against the wood like she was born to be there, born to be on top in all her glory, “I do have – ah- _some_ ambition, you know.”

“Careful,” he warns, as the back of his thighs hit and he finds himself leaning backwards – dragging her on top of him, closing his eyes at the press of her tongue, “next you’ll be trying to take over the city. Mm. And then the world. _mm_. And then where will we - _Clara_ \- be?”

Clara only snorts, shakes her head so that the end of her ponytail brushes his neck – climbs up half on top of him, hands bracing herself on the desk as she leans down to claim his lips, “I’m not _you_ , Lex.”

…Touché.

And he knows that he should be more annoyed by that, knows that he should be grumpy and stiff and all of the other things that he can’t help being when people see through his tricks, but… Well. She disarms him, yet again. He wants to be grumpy, but the end of her ponytail is wound around his fingers. He wants to be stiff, but she’s melting on top of him in a way that allows him to feel her warmth even through his suit. He wants to stop her from seeing through his tricks, but she groans softly into his mouth and he just doesn’t _care_.

Not anymore.

Not ever again, maybe.

…Somebody is clearing their throat in a _highly_ aggravated way.

“Mercy!” He splutters, and shoots up in a way that is… Maybe not as dignified as he would like. Clara, miraculously, is already on her feet – is already turning around with a perfectly innocent expression and kiss swollen lips. Honestly, an Olympic athlete in the making – maybe then she’d have a _reason_ for besting him at every turn, “I mean: yes, what do you need?”

The slow rise of Mercy’s eyebrow, as she glances between Clara’s ruffled hair and his rumpled shirt, says more than words ever could. It’s a good thing that she knows to keep her mouth shut, or else he would’ve had to fire her – possibly into space - _long_ ago, “we have more plans for you to approve, sir. I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.”

“You were,” he snaps, stops, sighs at the warning touch of Clara’s fingers to his elbow and shakes his head. He’s starting to lose face – if this was anybody but Mercy, who has already endured enough of his heartsick fluttering, he’d be embarrassed almost beyond the point of recovery “…But that’s alright, Mercy. Clara, do you-?”

“It was going to have to be a flying visit anyway, I’m afraid,” Clara offers, apologetically, but with a smile so sweet that he forgives her before he even realizes that there’s anything to forgive. He’d resent it, yet again, but… Oh, yes, a kiss to the cheek. She really does know him far too well, “I can show myself out.”

“I’ll return for you once I’ve escorted Mr Luthor to his destination,” Mercy offers, before he can do more than hide a smile and open his mouth, “most of the building is still undergoing work, it’s best for everybody if you’re supervised.”

“That…”

Mercy has already turned on her heel, left at a professional trot.

“…Works too,” Clara makes a face, shakes her head. Even like this, all screwed up and resigned, she’s adorable – and really, almost depressingly, _far_ too good at making him forgive all her faults in the blink of an eye, “I guess I’ll just need to use more of my farmgirl charm on her, then.”

“She’ll fall in love with you in no time,” he promises – just to see her frown turn into a flattered smile, just to see her eyes brighten yet again “…I’ll see you later?”

“I’d be highly surprised if you didn’t,” she only giggles – and arches up just a little, presses their lips together in a gentle peck that leaves his heart swelling and his head oddly light, “and heartbroken, of course. Can’t forget that.”

He meanders his way halfway to the elevator with a soppy smile on his face and a song in his heart. The other half is conducted at a brusque march, as he remembers Mercy, but he can’t stop the smile from twitching around his lips still.

 

\--

 

Afterwards, in the elevator, he glowers at Mercy for one minute. Two. _Three_. She doesn’t respond, only keeps staring into the near distance with a deliberately blank expression on her face, but she should know better than to think that that’ll put him off. He only keeps waiting, keeps glowering. 

He’s never dealt very well with being annoyed.

“Mercy,” he says finally, when they’ve almost reached their destination and a slight flicker of relief has briefly flashed across her practiced mask, “what _problem_ do you have with my girlfriend, exactly?”

“I have no problem with your girlfriend,” she pauses for a second. He waits her out, well aware that he’s probably developing a twitch by now at this amount of mysterious disobedience, “sir.”

“ _Then_ ,” he forces out, through gritted teeth as she keeps staring at the metal doors of the elevator with a blasé expression neat and thoughtful upon her face, “why did you treat her so rudely, may I ask? Why were you so impolite to her, in _my_ presence?”

Mercy remains silent for another second, another stretching moment. His teeth grit harder, his hands start to curl. He prides himself on being a patient man, usually, _but_ -

And then she turns to him, just slightly. Looks at him from below the dip of her usual cap, so neat and perfect upon her head, and speaks lowly – as if trying not to be detected, “you honestly don’t know, sir?”

“…Know?” He’s taken aback, shocked, bamboozled if he was the type of man to use such a word. He catches himself quickly, though – resumes his glaring, resumes his usual thought processes with barely a blip, “know _what_? I must say, I’m growing very tired of these pathetic attempts at creating suspense-“

“Of course, Sir,” but her eyes only slide away from him, her stance only resumes its usual air of disinterested compliance… As the elevator doors slide open, and she steps swiftly away with nary a backwards glance, “my apologies, sir. It’s nothing, really, and I was at fault to bring it up.”

Somehow, though, he doubts that.


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m still not entirely sure why we’re _here_.”

“Well, _I’m_ working,” Lois cuts in, before he can do more than roll his eyes and take another slow sip of his champagne, “because apparently writing reports on corruption qualifies me to write fluff pieces on ‘women’s issues’. And _you’re_ supposed to be supporting me, because apparently this kind of thing needs two people in case it gets out of hand. Except-“

“Lois-“

“-Then you decided to mix business with pleasure,” Lois finishes triumphantly, and takes a sharp sip of her _own_ glass of champagne, “so now I’m not entirely sure what’s going on.”

There’s a long pause.

He sighs softly, and takes a downright _gulp_.

He’s always liked fashion, and fashion shows, to a perhaps too intense degree. He’s a stylish man, after all, and the need to keep up appearances is _constantly_ at the front of his mind. Sharp suits, smart casual wear, a general sense of _style_ that should – if he’s doing his job properly – permeate every room he walks into. He takes pride in it, he takes _pleasure_ in it. Staying ahead of the curve is a hobby, and he gets a certain thrill every time that he indulges.

Clara, with her semi-permanent jeans and messy hair and battered suits hanging several sizes too big off her shoulders, does not get such a thrill – but he gently pressured her into going anyway. He’s starting to feel slightly guilty about that. It’s a sensation that does _not_ mix pleasantly with the judgemental look upon Lois’ face.

“Look,” he murmurs stiffly, around another gulp of champagne – because if he has to deal with this, then tipsy is probably the best way to go, “if I’m intruding -“

“You are,” Lois offers, with her customary bluntness.

“You _aren’t_ ,” Clara snaps, just a second afterwards, and glares at Lois so hard that the other woman actually rolls her eyes – looks away with a disgruntled grumble and a tap of her long nails against the table, “look, ignore her, she’s just… Being herself tonight, as per usual.”

“I can understand,” he sighs gently, although it’s like pulling teeth to admit it. He respects Lois, you’d have to be a complete imbecile not to, but that doesn’t mean that he has to _like_ her, “as much as I enjoy the atmosphere, I must admit that this is a bit of a come down from her previous work.”

“On your company,” Clara reminds him softly, with a wry sparkle in her eyes that just _screams_ trouble.

“On my company,” he bites the inside of his cheek for a moment, takes a deep breath. Choosing to sit at a table with two ladies who have a proven track record of rattling him was, perhaps, not one of his best ideas, “the point is that I understand, and it doesn’t really matter. What matters to me, my dear Clara, is _you_.”

And even after several months of dating, several breathless hours spent in bed with him mumbling worship into her skin, she blushes a little at that. Only Clara, “me?”

“Of course,” he says, only a _touch_ impatiently, and reaches out to take her hand – cool, as oddly calloused as ever for a newspaper reporter with the only occasional habit of throwing herself into absurdly dangerous situations, “I’m not making things awkward for you, am I? I know that you don’t like these kind of occasions, and I fear that-“

“You’re not making it worse, Lex,” she replies firmly, and turns her hand in his – gripping him with an amount of strength that’d be surprising, if he wasn’t already getting used to it, “if anything, you’re making it better. Like you make most things better, most of the time.”

Lois makes a gagging noise in the background, he ignores her as much as possible, “do you truly mean that?”

A shadow passes over her face, but it’s very brief. Soon she’s smiling again, his eternally sunny Clara with so much hope bursting out of her chest that it’s sometimes an effort to do more than just spread himself out and revel in her rays, “would I lie to you, Lex?”

“I’d certainly hope not,” he purrs – and watches the way her face lights up, the way her giggle makes her look even more beautiful than the models strutting about on stage, “or I would, as a matter of principle, have to punish you for it.”

“Oh,” her smirk takes on a devilish tone, or as close to devilish as Clara can manage – she’s really closer to an angel, a divine being of pure light that… Makes him want to slap himself for his own cheesiness, granted, “that sounds rather mysterious, Mr Luthor. Pray, continue before I’m forced to set Lois on you.”

“Tch, another matter that deserves a firm hand,” he can’t help but smirk at that, a little wicked thing. Because Clara may be an angel, but he has never _once_ dreamed of reaching that high, “Perhaps we should slip off a little early, get Mercy to drive us somewhere private so I can tell you…”

But it’s not to be.

The tail-end of his suggestion, the actually interesting part, is cut off before he has the chance to do more than give a suggestive breath. There’s suddenly a commotion, a kerfuffle. All the press, who had before been eyeing him and Clara with hungry eyes, suddenly split away. Tumble, rush, _gallop_ to the front doors instead… 

Where a small, terribly stylish figure has just entered. Is posing for them amiably, a winning smile upon her lips.

“Lana Lang,” Lois whistles, and shakes her head – she still doesn’t look at either of them properly, but he supposes that words are some sort of start, “I didn’t think that she was going to show up tonight.”

“Neither did I,” he offers, because if Lois is making a – minor – effort then he’s not going to be outdone. _Especially_ not with Clara next to him, still hopefully willing to flee into his arms and indulge in more… Carnal pleasures, “I’d heard she was busy in Gotham, heading up a new business line for their richest and finest.”

There’s a long pause. He’s not paying attention, honestly, but he swears that he sees the purse of Lois’ lips out of the corner of his eye, “I’d heard London.”

“Well, Ms Lane, your sources _do_ often leave something to be desired-“

But the immanent battle, the immanent _war_ heralded by his gritted teeth and Lois’ fist quite obviously clenched on the table, is delayed. Clara, seemingly unwilling to be a spectator, slowly rises to her feet – tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and sighs at him reprovingly, “I’ll be right back.”

He blinks for a second.

…He slowly nods his acceptance, because he’s honestly not sure if he’d win against Lois at present moment, but keeps frowning nonetheless, “may I ask why?”

“Yeah, Smallville,” Lois, more annoyed than relieved, snorts air out through her nose – shakes her head ever so contemptuously, like queen of some ancient and decrepit castle, as she sits back in her chair, “we _are_ supposed to be working here, you know.”

“Lana and I…” Clara hesitates for a second, under the both of them. Slowly shakes her head, and carries on. He’s always admired her strength, at moments like this he believes it practically superhuman, “we’re old friends, from back in Kansas. I just want to say hi, see how she’s doing. Do I have your permission?”

“You…” he says softly, and resists the urge to wince at the disapproving light in her eyes, “Don’t need it, of course.”

“Fine by me,” Lois only snorts again, and glances back to the stage – a deliberate show of scorn like only Lois can manage, considering that the space is briefly empty to herald the arrival of their glorious leader, “just try to get an exclusive, alright? We might as well get _something_ out of this debacle.”

“Charming as ever,” Clara comments wryly, and then bends down to him before he can do more than sneer – her lips, as ever, are soft and distracting. When she pulls back there’s a new sparkle in her eyes, a looser one that leaves him somehow breathless and happy and _free_ , “to be continued, darling.”

And then she sashays away.

…Or, more accurately, almost stumbles into a waiter and then marches backstage at a slightly embarrassed speed. It’s enchanting, either way.

When he turns back Lois is staring at him darkly, her arms crossed over his chest. He would be taken aback, but he never expects cordiality when it comes to Ms Lane. He only arches a polite eyebrow at her, tilts his head slightly, picks up his glass again…

“You sicken me,” Lois grunts, ever so flatly.

“The feeling, Ms Lane, is _entirely_ mutual,” he replies sweetly, and drains his champagne in a single swallow.

 

\--

 

The evening, of course, gets far worse _far_ too quickly.

There’s a break-in, or a casual stroll in judging by the competency of the guards. A set of demands, an attempted kidnap fast and sudden, a dart towards the nearest elevator… And an appearance from Superwoman, right on time. Soaring in to save the day in shades of garish red and annoying blue, drawing gasps of obnoxious admiration from every corner where she chooses to fling her radiance.

And he thought Lois was bad.

He gets to the rooftop a few seconds after everything happens, bursts through the door at top speed and almost collides with the mysterious Ms Lang – almost knocks her into Superwoman, standing so innocently behind her. He hardly pays that any attention, simply takes Ms Lang’s shoulders in his hands and stares into her wide eyes, “where’s Clara?”

“Uh,” Ms Lang – Lana Lang, darling of every scene she pokes her rather inquisitive head into – only blinks at him, tries to shoot a brief glance behind her to where Superwoman stands.

…Or to where Superwoman has already flown off. There for the property damage, gone for the clean-up – he’s often debated pointing this relevant fact out to the city, but it would only get him numerous glares for daring to challenge their _goddess_.

It doesn’t matter, he grips Ms Lang’s shoulders tighter – shakes her as hard as he dares. The guards behind him, the ones with even worse timing than the divine Superwoman, mumble uncomfortably. He ignores them, shakes her again, “where. Is. _Clara_?”

“No idea,” and Ms Lang – Lana - turns back with a mischievous spark in her eye, looks over him once… And smirks so wickedly that he takes a step backwards at the very sight of it, “still down at the party, I’d guess. Hey, aren’t you Lex Luthor?”

He’s starting to _long_ for Lois.

 

\--

 

When he gets back downstairs, after the enigmatic Lana wriggled out of his grasp and smirked at him until the urge to run away became an actual compulsion, the first thing he sees is Clara. Emerging from backstage with her hair slightly ruffled and a confused expression on her face.

He knows that he should be annoyed that Lana was right, he’s usually annoyed when _anybody_ proves him wrong, but the sheer shock of relief erases that pretty much immediately. He strides over to her, at as fast a walk as he can manage while still looking dignified – takes her into his arms, and kisses her so hard that he almost lifts her off the floor.

“…Lex?” She ventures when he puts her down, sparing a brief glance for cameras. All, thankfully, in disarray – he feels relieved, he cares about Clara enough that he wants to spare her the media circus, “are you alright?”

“I am now,” the charm comes, so quick and genuine, that he’s left blinking in the wake of it. Carries on quickly, before she can do more than stare up at him with that terribly distracting flush upon her cheeks, “where were you?”

“Backstage,” she frowns at him a little, continues to look confused. It’s somehow endearing on her, even though he’d be boiling with frustration at anybody else who dared to be so right in front of him, “searching for Lana, remember? When I went into her dressing room she wasn’t there, and I suppose I must have got a bit lost…”

He stares down at her, in something that can only be described as baffled frustration.

“Lex?” She notices, frowns even harder, stiffens a little – so perceptive, and yet so… _Innocent_ at the same time. He still can’t understand it, no matter how hard he tries, “Lex, what’s wrong? Has something happened to Lana?”

He stares down at her.

He slowly, ever so slowly and confusedly and with so much mixed frustration and relief weighing him down, starts to open his mouth…

“Oh, _honey_ ,” a purr comes from right behind his shoulder, and Lana Lang drifts right by him – lays her hand intimately on Clara’s shoulder, like she’s known her for absolutely _years_ , “I’m fine, _Superwoman_ saved me before I could sustain more than a scratch. I must say, I wasn’t expecting to find you here…”

He closes his mouth, with an audible pop. Starts, very slowly and with some reluctance, to frown anew.

 

\--

 

Clara, as it turns out, wants to escort the _obnoxious_ Ms Lana Lang home.

“It’s not that I don’t understand,” he murmurs, trying to remain both polite and calm – there’s no reason to be annoyed, after all. There’s nothing to actually be _troubled_ about, “she’s had a traumatic experience, and she’d like the company of her friend. I know that, I do, I _appreciate_ it. It’s just…”

“I know we had things planned, Lex,” Clara offers quietly, guiltily – staring up at him with those big eyes, looking so innocent that he can already feel himself starting to melt, “but… This is important. I haven’t seen Lana for years, and the first time I do she almost gets kidnapped. We have a lot to catch up on.”

“Of course,” he says, and fights the annoyed urge yet again – crosses his arms over his chest, takes a deep breath to keep it all in, “I- understand, of course. You have your priorities.”

“ _Lex_! I didn’t-“ Clara pauses for a second, shakes her head guilty. Her hands, when she reaches out to take his, are oddly warm – reassuring, no matter how hard he tries to resist them, “you’re the most important thing to me, I promise. If you don’t want me to go, then just say – I can make my excuses to Lana, she’ll probably understand… Uh, eventually.”

He takes a deep breath.

“…No,” releases it, reluctantly. He doesn’t know what this woman is doing to him, seeping into his heart and _changing_ him until he’s so much nicer than he ever thought he’d be, but he can’t quite summon the energy to protest, “go on, catch up with her. I can wait.”

“Thank you, Lex,” and her smile is so bright that it almost blinds him. He can only reply with a wry smirk of his own, a small shrug of his shoulders, “I’ll try to pop over after we’re done talking, alright?”

“You know where I live, somehow.”

“Professional secrets, Lex, _professional secrets_ ,” and she smiles at him again, still brightly, and leans up for a farewell kiss. He watches her depart through the crowd fondly – hair still up, if messy, hips swaying and body beautifully – fascinatingly – awkward in her long green dress.

He thinks for a second, silently.

“Mercy?”

She materializes at his elbow as if she was always there, arches a slow eyebrow as he turns to her. Always professional, is Mercy, always willing to do what needs to be done, “yes, sir?”

“Place surveillance on Ms Lang’s apartment,” he considers for a second, and then sighs deeply – tears his eyes away from Clara’s back, and strides away like it’ll negate even a single bit of his out of place disappointment, “and get me a whisky, I have the feeling that I’m going to need it.”

 

\--

 

Mercy calls him at about half past midnight, when he’s almost given up hope of seeing Clara and is preparing to stomp sulkily off to bed.

“She knows Superwoman,” is her opening.

“…Okay,” and somehow a long night gets even longer. He sighs, bites down on a yawn, sinks wearily back onto his sofa, “are you sure about that, Mercy? She did just save the woman’s life, maybe she’s just popping by to check that she’s alright?”

“Unlikely. She rarely sticks around for the clean-up. That’s your main problem with her, remember?” She sniffs, carries on before he can do more than open his mouth in an aborted protest, “I saw them talking to each other, before she left. Heads close together like old friends. They know each other, sir, I’m _sure_ of it.”

He purses his lips, raises a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

“Sir?”

“I believe you, Mercy,” sighs, lowers the hand and leans his head right back – he never thought that he’d long for the customary rudeness of Lois with all his being, but this night has been packed full of unwelcome surprises, “you’ve never been wrong before, after all. Maybe we should talk to Ms Lang, probe subtly into what she knows.”

“Very good, sir,” Mercy’s voice is subtly disapproving, but she knows better than to voice it out loud. She’s a good bodyguard, she knows how to pretend to know her place, “Superwoman has left the apartment, should I continue surveillance?”

“Yes, until I get around to inviting her for a… Private chat. Can’t be too careful, after all,” He smirks a little, _starts_ a little as there’s a sudden rap across the room – tired, and so very annoyed with life and all that it entails, it takes him a moment to realize that somebody is actually knocking, “there’s somebody at the door, I have to go.”

“I wonder who-“

He cuts her off, before she can finish her oddly sarcastic purr. Clambers laboriously to his feet, stomps across the room, bites back another yawn as he yanks open the door and prepares to snap at whoever decided to insinuate themselves into this already rambling mess of a day-

And jerks back, as a sleepy looking Clara throws herself into his arms with a carefree laugh.

 

\--

 

Lana, to his surprise, actually agrees to a breakfast meeting.

“I’m a morning person,” she explains breezily, as she struts out onto his balcony with a casual throw of her hair – so stylish, so put together, so oddly commanding in a way that engenders reluctant respect even as he steeples his fingers before his face, “always have been, always will be. It’s annoyed the _hell_ out of some of my boyfriends, but… Oh, what do they matter? Where’s Clara?”

“Quite,” he offers politely, and keeps his fingers steepled. He’s met several people who have talked faster than Lana, even if he has to struggle to remember them – he’s not even the slightest bit intimidated by this display of forceful speed, “she had to leave early this morning, I’m afraid. She sends her regards.”

Or would, if he’d actually told her. There just didn’t seem to be _time_ , in between the falling asleep in each other’s arms and the luxurious morning sex in the shower and the slow kiss she gave him in goodbye as she scampered off. She’ll probably be fine with it, in hindsight.

If this goes well.

“Hm,” Lana’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t protest this – simply shrugs, settles down into her pulled out chair with a casual cross of her ankles that makes her look completely in control, “well, I suppose she is rather busy. A reporter for the Daily Planet – who would’ve thought it?”

“She has great talent,” he offers with a casual smile, reaching out to butter a croissant in a way that he’s _sure_ is perfectly matter of fact.

“I’m not doubting _that_ , lover boy, it’s just…” She sighs, shakes her head, smiles a little – her eyes, he notes, have gone slightly misty. It’s an interesting detail, one that he very deliberately files away for later, “she was never very good with words in high school. But, then, I was never very good with figures in high school and look where I am now! You never know where life will lead you.”

“Indeed,” he offers politely, yet again, and subtly adjusts his mental file to include _possibly a hippie_. Odd, that he no longer feels passionately inclined to throw such people off the top of his building – Clara must be having a good effect on him, “you’ve obviously known Clara a long time.”

“Yup,” she laughs, shakes her hair again. He gets the odd sense that she’s laughing at _him_ , makes his smile extra polite as a result, “since Kindergarten – or what stood for Kindergarten in _Smallville_ \- at the very least.”

“That’s where you met?”

“That’s the earliest I remember her, although our… Mothers were friends beforehand, so it’s entirely possible that we were babies together,” She pauses briefly, chuckles again, carries on before he can do more than blink at her odd hesitation, “but I try not to think of babies too much. Ew, babies, am I right?”

“Mm,” he says, mind flashing involuntarily to what a child of his and Clara’s would look like.

“We became best friends in Kindergarten, though,” Lana continues breezily, oblivious to the sudden longing throbbing oddly in his chest, “and remained best friends until we left Smallville in the dust behind us. Elementary, junior high, high school, that brief and terrifying moment where I thought I’d have to stay in Smallville permanently… Yup, Clara was always there. Always supportive and dorky and _weird_ -“

He purses his lips briefly, pushes the odd longing down in favour of-

“-And _wonderful_ , you know?”

…Empathy. As he finally looks at Lana’s dreamy face, and finds something akin to a kindred spirit – Clara is the type to provoke unrivalled adoration, after all, “yes, I suppose I do. Though I could think of several other words with more weight.”

“Well, not all of us were nerdy enough to pay attention in high school English,” she rolls her eyes at him, smirks mischievously. He smiles back tolerantly, tries not to look _too_ amused, “come on then, I’ve spilled all my secret stories to you at great and boring length. How did _you_ meet the great Clara?”

“Well…”

“Unless you want me to tell you more teenage girl stories…”

“I’m getting there, thank you,” he smiles politely, with no small measure of dread, and abandons the dramatic approach. As much as he loves to hear things about Clara, he has no doubt that Lana’s teenage memories would induce terror in even the most battle-hardened of soldiers, “she came to interview me for the Daily Planet, with Lois Lane. We got to talking, and… Well, here we are.”

“Several months into a relationship,” Lana snorts, gives a small smile – there’s something slightly wistful about it, but he’s willing not to press, “god, wish it was that easy for me. But, then, Clara’s always been a lot nicer than me – and with far better taste.”

“Thank you,” he accepts gracefully, and watches Lana’s eyes sparkle. So refreshing, to meet somebody who is just as keen on taking compliments as he is, “and I wouldn’t say that-“

“You would think it, though,” and Lana cackles, and the wistful expression disappears as soon as it came. He likes that, the ability to hide her emotions so well – it adds to the feeling of a kindred spirit, yet again, “ah, don’t worry about it. I’m not some heartbroken spinster, longing desperately for love. I’m actually _happy_ with my life, believe it or not-“

“I believe it,” he interrupts diplomatically, taking a slow sip of his morning coffee.

“…And happy with how my friends lives are going, too,” she only grins at him, reaches out to pour her own cup – for some reason, obnoxious and loud and obviously practiced as she is, he’s starting to _like_ Lana Lang. Which, after all, is probably for the best, “which is none of my business, technically, but you know what I _mean_.”

He smiles, nods, takes another understanding sip of his coffee.

“…Take care of her as best you can, alright?” as Lana hesitates, and Lana shakes her head, and Lana carries on with an odd smile on her face like she feels ridiculous and can’t quite bring herself to care, “she was my best friend. That means something, no matter what.”

“I’ll try my best,” he nods, somewhat pleased. And offers her another croissant.

 

\--

 

Later that day he receives a phonecall that makes him crush a canapé in his hand, his earlier good mood evaporating like dew under the boiling sun.

_Superwoman_.

“Lex?” Clara glances up from her own lunch, pauses as she takes in the doubtlessly frozen rage on his face – she hesitates for a long moment, then bravely continues in the face of him, “is anything wrong…?”

Damned _Superwoman_. With her flashing eyes and dark hair and addiction to making everything that he does go wrong. Damned _Superwoman_. Who can bend metal and ruin plans and apparently has a talent for reading minds. Damned _Superwoman_. Goddess, bitch, _thief_ dedicated to ruining his whole life…

“Lex?”

Superwoman. Close friend of Lana Lang.

“I’m fine,” he forces, through a tight throat, and starts to make plans – detailed plans, watertight plans, _ruthless_ plans even with Clara looking over at him with such innocent and concerned eyes, “just a business deal that went a little wrong, nothing that can’t be easily fixed. Are you enjoying your food?”

She frowns at him, briefly. But lets it go.

 

\--

 

“I need proof,” he’d told Mercy earlier, down in the labs with the lead-lined walls – deep and quiet so Superwoman, with her pesky sense of _justice_ and bulk to back it up, has absolutely no chance of hearing, “definite proof. The more idea I have of what she knows, and how she knows it and how she’s _feeding_ it to our primary coloured friend, the better the plan will be.”

At the time she’d only nodded, given him a slightly cautious glance, turned out of the room and marched away like the most obedient soldier of all-

But now, _now_ , oh how she has delivered.

“She only knew of the train shipments,” Mercy had informed him in the car, recently lined with lead and that’s yet _another_ reason he hates Superwoman’s meddling, as she drove him to a meeting that was apparently important, “nothing more. And I’m pretty sure that she didn’t know exactly what they were for, either – just their location.”

“She discovered this by listening outside the door,” she continued, parking smoothly and getting out to open the door for him – he tried to glower at her, but she only arched an eyebrow that quickly informed him that everything had already been accounted for, “when you invited her to breakfast, after she was supposed to have left. I’m pretty sure that the information was partial, fragmentary, nothing that could incriminate you in any court of law. But, of course, since Superwoman already suspects you anyway…”

“And as for how she knows Superwoman…”

He stands on a perfectly situated hill, where Mercy has deliberately parked the car. Stares through a purposeful pair of binoculars, handed to him the moment he made an impatient gesture, at Lana Lang and Superwoman walking through the park below them. Talking intimately, smiling fondly at each other, arching close for a soft kiss-

Or not. As, he observes with a bizarre buzz of gratification in his gut, Superwoman pushes Lana gently back. Frowns a little. Shakes her head and says a few sharp words that have the other woman sinking back down and rolling her eyes in a long-suffering way.

He pulls back, hands the binoculars to Mercy, smiles a little. It seems, to his pleasure, that this mess of a week may be able to be salvaged after all, “excellent. Get the teams on standby, and I’ll finalize the plans.”

 

\--

 

The worst part is the feeling that he _really_ should’ve learned by now.

Lana Lang is kidnapped when she steps, somewhat unwisely, into a Lexcorp limo that pulls up on her front doorstep. She sees the driver, the unfortunate Mr Eelan with whom he is associating only out of necessity, and is knocked out by him in short order. She is then driven to a lead factory, with the assumption that Superwoman will be completely unable to see her, and quite deliberately told that she is going to be killed. She is then, contrary to very deliberate instructions, put on a conveyer belt and left to die in what must be one of the most absurdly melodramatic plots known to man.

And it is no surprise after all of that, after leaving such a matter to such an _idiot_ as Mr Eelan, that Superwoman finds her. That Superwoman flies back from his carefully laid distraction of Central city, that Superwoman bursts in through the ceiling, that Superwoman rescues Lana Lang, that Superwoman also stops to rescue the unworthy Mr Eelan, that Superwoman destroys the factory, that Superwoman destroys all his plans, that Superwoman _exists_ to ruin everything that was once good about his life.

(He’s starting to wonder, somewhat grumpily, if one day she’s going to crash through the door and steal Clara out of his life. It seems like something she would enjoy, after all.)

The press are on his tail, the government are rumbling suspiciously, even his investors are reported to be making somewhat nervous noises. He sits back in his office chair, pinches his nose between his fingers and sighs so loudly that a pigeon pecking around on the balcony outside starts angrily into the air, “I’d ask if it could actually get any worse, but…”

“It’s best not to tempt fate, sir,” Mercy reminds him, and provides a cup of coffee so quickly that he briefly wonders – still in a somewhat despairing daze – if she’s actually a robot that he built and somehow forgot about, “sugar?”

 

\--

 

Unfortunately, as it turns out, fate is apparently _always_ listening to him – no matter how good he is about keeping his mouth shut.

“I can’t believe you!” Clara yells, actually _yells_ , across his living room at him – her hands balled into fists, her eyes blazing behind her glasses, her entire posture stiff and angry and capable of making lesser men actually sprint in fear, “I can’t _believe_ you, Lex, she was my best friend and you tried to _murder_ her!”

“Clara,” he tries, raising his hands. He knows that he’s one of the better men, has known since birth, but even he has to fight the urge to turn and start a new life in Mexico, “Clara, please, it wasn’t what it looked like-“

“What was it _supposed_ to look like?” Or even further away – Brazil, perhaps, or maybe _Antarctica_ considering the way that she’s looking at him right now, “inviting her out for dinner? Going to one of her shows? Transporting her to a happy land of fairy dust and attempted _murder_?”

“You really should stop listening to Lois so much-“

“This isn’t a _fantasy_ , Lex,” Clara simply rides over him, her eyes still blazing. He’s never seen her angry before. It’s slightly intimidating, yes, but it’s also oddly… Striking. He’s starting to feel guilty, for the first time in years. It isn’t an emotion that sits well upon his shoulders, “she told me it was you, she _knows_ it was you. Your car, your puppet, _your_ plans to _remove_ her. She knows and I know and-!”

He starts forward, driven by the odd roiling in his gut. She stops him with a single hand, buries her head in the other one and takes a deep and calming breath.

“…Ugh,” and another, and the guilty feeling only gets worse as she lifts her head and fixes him with a glance so hard that he almost _winces_ in the face of it, “I just thought you were better than this. I thought that you had changed, or at least were changing. I thought you couldn’t possibly be the evil mastermind that Lois painted you as, but here we are and I can hardly see a difference.”

“Clara…” He stops, takes a deep breath. Somehow, _somehow_ , he’s struck to the heart – staggered, by the amount that he’s messed this up and could _still_ mess it up even further, “I’m not.”

“Then why?” Clara just stares at him, lips thin. It hurts, to know that she’s this angry purely because of him, “why did you try to kill her, Lex? What did she ever do to you?”

“She overheard some sensitive business material, and used it against me,” he offers honestly, and weathers Clara’s stare – weathers the surprise in her eyes, that he’d actually tell the truth to her, “a deal that would’ve earned me a lot of money, but that was perhaps… Less than morally sound. I was angry, at the loss. I overreacted.”

“No kidding,” Clara snorts, voice quiet – eyes still on him, still so hurt.

“And…” It wounds him too, in a way, and that is perhaps the scariest thing that he’s ever faced. That her cares about Clara so much, so very deeply, that her pain is his own. That hurting her feels somewhat like a dagger to the heart, despite all the layers he’s built up over it, “maybe I was a little jealous. Of her, of her relationship with you.”

“Jealous…?”

“She seems to know you so well,” he says miserably, but honestly – and he can see her eyes widen at the weight of it, “while I, through no fault of your own, still find you a mystery. She _likes_ you, Clara, it’s quite clear to see. And I… I got possessive, and jealous, and made quite a few mistakes as a result.”

Clara is silent for a long moment, thoughtful. Her face is still firm, but he can hardly begrudge her that, “that doesn’t-“

“I know,” he says quietly over her, and watches her suck in a breath – blink a little, as if she wasn’t expecting it of him, “believe me, I know and I’m sorry for it. Jealousy is a poisonous feeling, and I shouldn’t have let it control me, and I _regret_ it- but that doesn’t change anything. I know, and I’m sorry.”

She stares at him for another long moment, silent and watchful and _hurt_ -

“It doesn’t,” speaks quietly, and collects her purse from where she flung it at his sofa – slides it neatly over her shoulder and heads for the door with a long backwards glance, “I… I’ll see you around, Lex. You know where I am if you- Yeah.”

She marches out of the door, straight backed and shaking. He lets her go, slumps down onto the sofa and buries his head in his hands – sighs lowly, blinks back the odd pressure waiting behind his eyes and longs for just a drop of alcohol.

Guilt is becoming _far_ from his favourite emotion.


	3. Chapter 3

When Clara opens the door to him she looks so tired that his immediate urge is just to sweep her off her feet and carry her to bed. They can’t possibly solve things like this, after all. She’s tired, he’s tense – really, he should just tuck her into bed and go on his merry way and forget all about this until-

“Lex,” Clara greets him, sounding an awful lot less surprised than he thought she’d be. He eyes are tired behind her glasses as she takes him in, but still alert. Clara may be nice, but that doesn’t mean that she’s not the smartest woman that he’s ever had the pleasure of meeting.

…To back out now, to throw her over his shoulder like some caveman and treat her like some child who only needs a bit of warm milk, would be the coward’s way out. And, worse than that, actively _insulting_. He fights the urge, smiles at her beseechingly instead. He got in this mess by assuming things of her, he’s not going to let it happen again, “Clara. Is it alright if I come in?”

She looks a little surprised at _that_ , to a resurgence of the old miserable guilt, but then faintly pleased. She takes him in with one long look – his best casual suit, his arms full of her favourite flowers – red petalled and not easily found in Metropolis – and the beseeching look so prominent upon his face…

And then nods, smiles just slightly. He has to hold back a long sigh of relief as she steps back, gestures him in with one short motion, “sure. It gets cold in that hall, after all. Wouldn’t want you to freeze.”

“Really?” He’s never spent much time in her hall before, thankfully. Hasn’t actually spent that much time in her _apartment_ , because she’s so much keener on his and he hates to deny her something so small. He resists the urge to look around as he enters, keeps his eyes fixed on her instead – a far nicer sight, “I could always call up the Superintendent, if you want, remind him of the law in Metropolis-“

“Lex,” and as a result he immediately sees her raise her hand, immediately stops at the cue. He can afford that much, after all – she’s most certainly _not_ a business acquisition that he can talk his way endlessly over, “no, it’s fine. It only bothers me in the mornings and _sometimes_ when I’m heading back from work, anyhow.”

There’s more there, he feels somewhat thrilled that he can sense it. He doesn’t interrupt her, only waits patiently – obediently – for her continuation.

“…You can’t _buy_ your way back into my good graces, you know. I don’t know how it worked with the society girls you dated before, I’m not sure that I particularly _want_ to know, but-“

“I know,” he says gently, as she splutters awkwardly off, hands her the flowers as a sort of peace offering. She takes them gingerly, which he’s going to count as a victory – stares down at the petals with a miserable sort of flush on her face, “Clara, I know. The offer wasn’t about that, those flowers… Also aren’t about that. I know that I can’t buy you, and I’d never actually _want_ to.”

“Then why-?”

“Am I here?” He finishes for her, and revels in the way that she finally looks at him – a slight smile unconsciously curving her lips as she nods, “to sincerely offer my apologies. I was completely in the wrong, I lost my head. And nothing makes up for that, nothing in the world. You were right to be angry, and you’d be right to hold onto that anger. I want you to forgive me, I won’t deny that, but it’d be wrong for me to _demand_ it from you. I behaved abominably throughout the entire business, and I doubt that I have the right to demand anything from you ever again.”

She stares at him silently this time. Eyes wide, face… Still somehow unreadable, even after all of these months.

“And nor should I,” he admits. He knows that he should feel worse about this, this relentless surrender, but it’s hard to – hard to, when he knows so surely that he deserves every bit of pain that’s coming to him, “because that assumption is what got me here in the first place. All I can say is that I’m sorry, yet again, and that you honestly don’t have to forgive me. I just wanted you to know that I truly, honestly, regret what I did and why I did it-“

She keeps staring…

“-And that I’ll leave now, if you want.”

Staring…

“Don’t,” and then speaks, in a small voice. Lays the flowers gingerly down on the table, steps around and takes his hands – a firm grip, one that immediately draws his gaze right to her resolute eyes, “please don’t. You don’t have to ask forgiveness of me.”

“I know,” he says, turning towards her. And, for once, he really does – is really straining to grasp as much of the matter as he can, “I know, yet again. I’ve already sent my sincere apologies to Ms Lang, and although she has no obligation to reply to me-“

“She forgives you,” Clara interrupts him smoothly, and takes in his probably comical expression of shock with a small flash of amusement – a gentle glint in her eye that somehow, somehow, tries its best to convince him that everything is going to be alright, “told me it was just business, when I went to her to complain. She would’ve preferred not to be almost boiled alive, of course, but… Apparently that’s just how things go.”

He stares at her as his brain, valiantly, tries to reboot. He has the vague impression that he must look hilarious, a gawping loon with no words in his head. He’s finding it somewhat hard to summon up the proper level of outrage at this.

“I know,” Clara says at his expression, and actually _laughs_ \- a bright sound, a sly sound that doesn’t help at all with his current level of confusion, “I think she’s insane too, but… I quite like insane people, you see.”

It takes a long moment for his tongue to work again. When it does, he’s pretty sure that his voice sounds like sandpaper, “you do?”

“They add, as my dear friend Lana would say, _flavour_ to life,” and she only smiles at him again, leans up to give him a casual peck on the mouth… And then waltzes away, leaving him squinting and confused behind her, “come on, I’ll get you some wine. You look like you’ve had a _heck_ of a day.”

 

\--

 

Later, when they’ve sampled Clara’s cheap wine and laughed awkwardly over the sharp flavour and kissed with the tang of it still on their tongues and hurried to the bathroom and stripped and somehow crammed themselves awkwardly into her surprisingly spacious bath together and rose dripping from it afterwards and indulged in a massage with his fingers sliding sweetly along her soft back-

(“How can you possibly still smell singed, miss Kent? You’ve just had a _bath_.”

“I got caught up in that gold robbery today, Mr Luthor. I doubt that _you’d_ be smelling of roses after such a predicament.”)

-They coil in bed together. Her dark head heavy upon his chest, his fingers playing with the ends of her damp hair. She looks different, fresh out of the water – it makes her usually messy hair even more lackadaisical, haloed around her head like a giant ball of fluff. It suits her, in a way that amuses him down to his very stomach.

He’s starting to think that it suits him. To be here, like this.

“Lex?” Clara asks sleepily, just as he’s starting to drift off with that thought in his head. He immediately starts up at the brush of her voice, turns his head down to her with a probably undue amount of speed.

“Mm?”

“No more associating with people who try to kill my friends,” Clara yawns, and leans up to kiss him so sweetly that he can’t even mind the crick of his neck, “you’ll start to give a girl a _complex_ , you know.”


	4. Chapter 4

Life, slowly and inevitably, goes back to normal. He seeks out Clara’s company regularly, she finds him just as often. They flirt, they talk, they even cuddle close together out of the view of any cameras. They chat on the phone, go out for dates, end up naked back at each other’s apartments more regularly than not. Trains are robbed, people are kidnapped, life in Metropolis goes absolutely bizarre for weeks at a time. He complains to her about Superwoman in embarrassed spurts, she tells him about her work in cut off sighs. Life, as it ever has, goes _on_.

And…

He’s happy.

He knows that he probably shouldn’t be, has had that lesson drilled into him practically from birth, but he can’t help it. It’s a neverending fountain, a flow of glorious feeling that just refuses to be capped. He’s stuck in boring meetings all day, and he’s happy. Mercy dumps an entire box of paperwork on his desk, and he’s happy. Superwoman ruins all of his plans over and over again with a disturbing level of accuracy, and he’s _happy_. He just can’t _stop_.

And the odd thing is, the really all-consumingly odd thing is, that no matter how hard he tries he can’t picture himself ever stopping. Not for the rest of his life.

 

\--

 

It’s an unusually boring day at work when Mercy pokes her head around his door. Nothing particularly awful has happened, by his standards at least, but nothing has really been… _Motivating_. Boring prototypes that probably won’t make it past drafting, meetings so long that he’d started eyeing the window, phonecall after phonecall so _dull_ that he’d started doodling absent-minded escape plans on whatever paper he had to hand.

“Miss Kent on the line, sir.”

It’s only the timely intervention of Clara, and the well hidden roll of Mercy’s eyes as she turns on her heel and marches out of the door, that stops him from just writing the entire day off and going to his private bar instead.

“Clara?”

“Hey…”

…Scratch that.

“You sound somewhat tense,” he offers sympathetically, and slowly leans back in his chair – the sudden concern rising in his chest feels slightly pathetic, but he’s hardly going to let himself worry about it _now_ , “have aliens invaded the Daily Planet and taken Ms Lane hostage again?”

“It’s Thursday, Lex. That happens every _Tuesday_ ,” Clara laughs, but her heart doesn’t sound quite _in_ it. He immediately stops feeling even the slightest bit pathetic, clutches the phone instead like he can reach right through it and drag her into his arms, “um, so, no. It’s just that…”

“Are you alright?” He asks carefully, already prepared to leap up out of his seat and storm over to wherever she may be, “Clara-“

“Lex, I’m _fine_ ,” Clara takes in a deep breath, tries another chuckle – it comes out weak, yet again. The storming over to her location plan is starting to sound better by the second, “well, largely fine. Pretty much fine. Not _awful_ , at any rate. It’s just that I have this deadline-“

“You can meet it,” he says immediately, without even thinking.

“Oh, Lex,” it gets a genuine giggle, at least, so that’s something. Maybe he should try not thinking more often, if he can manage not to overthink it, “I hope so, I most certainly hope so. If I don’t…”

He frowns. Waits for her, with some effort.

“…Well, Perry will be less than pleased,” she finishes weakly, and then carries quickly on – before he has the chance to do more than blink and narrow his eyes, “the only problem is that I have less than a day to complete it. And to do so I have to go see a source who- I’ve had less than pleasant dealings with, in the past.”

He blinks a little, surprised. Clara is so lovely, so deeply wonderful in pretty much every way, that he finds it hard to believe that anybody could take against her, “you never told me that.”

“Um, well-“

“Don’t apologize, Clara, I would’ve probably tried to murder him had you done so,” he says strictly, and takes some pleasure in her surprised laugh – the slow easing of tension that he imagines on the other end of the line, “what’s your problem with this particular source?”

“I’m…” She sighs a little, laughs again. He sincerely hopes that he isn’t actually imagining her relaxing a little, that’d just be embarrassing for all involved, “this is going to sound a bit silly, but I- I’m _scared_ of him.”

He blinks.

“He’s… Well, for lack of a better word _creepy_ ,” Clara continues into his silence, starting to sound ever so tense again – ever so wobbly, in a way that makes him just want to gather her up into his arms and soothe the terror away, “and slimy, and just _wrong_. You know those horrible frat guys that look at girls like they’re pieces of meat? He’s like that, but somehow worse. And he can’t touch me this time, I _know_ he can’t touch me this time, but-“

“He’s touched you before?” He asks, actually _appalled_.

“…I’m _scared_ , Lex,” she ignores his question, as is her right, and finishes on a shaky breath. He wants to hug her so badly that it’s like an actual ache in his chest, “and I _have_ to go see him, or else terrible things will happen, but- But.”

He’s silent for a long moment, trying to manage the ache.

He takes a deep breath, and leans forward in his chair just as Clara takes a shaky breath on the other end of the line, “you don’t _have_ to do anything, Clara. But if _you_ feel that you must see him, then you should. Go see him, go expose him for the worm that he is, and then kick him in the balls and come back here. I’ll order Chinese food, we can watch To Kill a Mockingbird again and we can talk about murdering this bastard in exactly the manner he deserves. Agreed?”

“ _Lex_ -“

“Clara.”

“…Agreed,” she gives a shaky little laugh, and then clears her throat briskly. He gives a secret smile of relief, leans back into his chair before he can embarrass both of them, “though I must warn you, the conversation about _actually killing a man_ may be a rather short one.”

“That’s alright, I’m willing to be persuaded,” he smirks, easily. And then, before he can quite stop himself (not that he quite wants to)- “are you sure that you’re going to be alright?”

“Yeah,” and Clara laughs again, breezily down the phone – hopefully perfectly happy again, “yeah. With you around, Lex, I think that I’m going to be _wonderful_.”

 

\--

 

The rest of the day passes in a tense haze, full of frustration and barely concealed resentment at still being _here_. He snaps at a whole flock of innocent interns, snarls at several gormless business partners, even _yells_ at his exceptionally whiny head scientist when the man tries to inform him that certain _exceptionally_ easy prototypes won’t be able to be developed in a reasonable amount of time…

And none of it works, none of his outbursts relieve even a single fraction of his stress.

He’s so relieved when the end of the day, and Clara, approaches that he almost bursts out in song. He jumps up from his desk, subtly takes his phone off the hook and strides over to the big plate window that overlooks Metropolis. It’s starting to get dark, peaceful, quiet. Looking out over his city, the veins of it glowing so beseechingly under his eyes, he finally starts to ease a little. He is king, he is practically god. He runs this place, no matter what certain other fools may think. He will murder the idiot that dared to hurt Clara, and nobody will stop him. He will make an example of the fool, and not even Superwoman will dare to stop him. He will _see_ Clara-

“Sir!”

…And then Mercy hurries into the room, looking almost _concerned_ , and the sudden ease in his limbs fades away as quickly as dew under the morning sun.

 

\--

 

“Lex?”

He gets through to Clara on the fifth try, after half an hour of tense pacing. He’s so relieved that he almost sits down right where he’s standing, right on the hard floor of his office. It’d be humiliating, but he wouldn’t _care_ \- the sound of her voice is enough to ease all privations.

“Clara, where the _fuck_ are you?”

Almost.

“On my way to… Out, of course,” her voice sounds faint, wavy as if she’s running. Or, more than that, _pushing_ against something. He’d analyse that more, it sounds almost _windy_ on the other end of the line and it’s an eerily still day, but terror is still freezing his veins and he can’t exactly _think_ clearly at the moment, “where are you?”

Odd, he never thought that it’d be another person that reduced him back to the level of a mere animal growling on the floor. He should’ve known better, he supposes, “in my office.”

“In your office?! Lex, there is a _bomb_ about to go off in the centre of Metropolis-“

He should care more, he supposes, “I was waiting for you.”

“… _Lex_ -“

He _supposes_.

“Promise me that you’re actually getting out, Clara, that’s all I ask,” there’s no time for suppositions now. He grips the phone firmer in his hand, steps forward to look out over his city again – somewhere out there is Clara, and his separation from her is _killing_ him, “promise me that you’re not running to cover a story, or flailing over some poor innocents who’ve idiotically crashed their car, and I won’t ask you any more.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line, a hesitant pause. He can feel her stubbornness start to rear, that old _care_ for people that’s going to get her killed one day.

And he can’t allow that.

“ _Promise_ me,” he bargains lowly into his phone, so tense that he realizes that he’s bouncing on his heels only when his shiny new shoes start to squeak in protest under the strain “…And I’ll climb in my helicopter instead of personally heading out to find you.”

There’s a slightly shorter pause, a sharp breath of air as if she knows _exactly_ what he’s doing.

“Promise me,” he’d feel guiltier – but, you know. Bomb in the centre of the city, death on the horizon, dead _girlfriend_ on the horizon. He has bigger problems than his old nemesis, thank you very much, “and I’ll leave too, Clara. Tell me that you’re _safe_ , and I’ll take Mercy and flee and-“

“I’m pretty sure that that’s some sort of blackmail, Lex,” Clara interrupts him – obviously trying to sound annoyed, but with a little wobble to her tone that shows her to be more affected than she’d ever admit, “I should probably disapprove of that.”

He smiles. Tightly, yes, but a smile nonetheless, “do you?”

“I… Of course, I’m going to give you _hell_ after all this,” she laughs a little, shakes her head by the scratching noise that filters down the phone. The oddly windy noise has faded a little, she’s obviously slowed down as much as she dares, “but I promise. Now _go_ , before I call Mercy and get her to _drag_ you out of there.”

“I’ll have to ask how you got her number one of these days,” he says, feeling almost faint with relief – a new emotion, but not an entirely unpleasant one, “stay safe, alright?”

“Professional secrecy, darling,” and Clara only laughs down the phone at him – as bright a sound as ever, no matter how dark the world may be around them, “and as safe as I can.”

 

\--

 

Superwoman saves the day yet again, of course. Just in the nick of time, via her usual method of punching her foes until they submit with a faintly weary sigh. He’d almost _expect_ it by now, if it wasn’t for the sense of paranoia that he’s proudly spent years cultivating – Gang warfare breaks out? Don’t worry, Superwoman will fix it! Alien invasion? Keep calm, Superwoman has it handled! Giant asteroid heading right for Metropolis? No fear, Superwoman is here!

(He’d almost be _grateful_ \- if every instinct in his body wasn’t screaming out against it, if he wasn’t so envious that he’s sure that he’s starting to turn green around the edges, if he didn’t _hate_ with a passion so fervent that it almost borders on- No.)

“Oddly coincidental,” Mercy comments serenely afterwards – when they’re back in his office, helicopter safely tucked away.

He’s been watching the news coverage, such relieved fools falling over themselves, with one eye. Watching his phone, still stubbornly refusing to produce Clara’s voice, with the other. He’s so distracted that it takes him a moment to register Mercy’s words, to look up with his eyes narrowing and his mind still slightly dazed, “what?”

“Miss Kent has a tight deadline on a story, a witness that she’s afraid of,” Mercy offers, perfectly disinterested – for all her concern she could be sitting at a tea party, not standing in an office with confusion dripping from her tongue, “Superwoman has a tight deadline on a bomb, has to work with a creature that’s hurt her before…”

He stares for a long few seconds, mind still oddly fogged. Mercy only stares at him impassively, a slight shine in her eyes that implies that she thinks that he’s an idiot and she’s a saint for putting up with him.

“…What-?”

“Oddly coincidental,” she repeats, neatly, and turns on her heel before he can press any further, “I’ll cancel the rest of your calls for today, sir. It shouldn’t take more than half an hour. Say ‘hi’ to Miss Kent for me.”

He’s left sitting in his office, staring into space. _Baffled_.

 

\--

 

“Hi- you look awful.”

“Romantic as ever, Lex,” Clara offers wryly, and then undermines her entire point with a low sniffle. He’d feel worse about being insensitive, about showing his hand, but it can’t quite be denied that Clara looks absolutely _appalling_ \- skin a few shades beyond too pale, hair hanging lank in a low ponytail, nose running so openly that he half feels the need to ask if she wants a bowl.

…Well, that’s a bit of an overly worried exaggeration. But-

The worry from earlier, the confusion of Mercy that he meant to discuss at length, fades away at the mere sight of her. He can only give a low sigh, shuffle sideways to let her in and allow his better nature to overcome him yet again, “it came on suddenly, I’m guessing?”

“You’d be guessing right,” Clara wheezes, and offers him a weak smile – too sick to even respond to his teasing, this really _must_ be serious, “it’s the stress, I’m guessing, or something like it. Apparently your boyfriend threatening to explode himself causes that sort of thing, or so I’ve been told.”

“I wasn’t threatening to explode myself, I was threatening to put myself in the way of an explosion,” he corrects mildly, and offers his arm to lean against – her skin, when he touches it, seems unnaturally hot, “justified, considering the situation. Do you want me to call a doctor?”

“Hm,” she squints at him, attempts a weak smirk that soon falls off her face – he suddenly gets a glimpse, selfish as it is, of what Mercy must have felt like that one time he contracted a rather nasty case of the flu, “nah, I’ll be fine. Probably. Definitely. I just need… Ah, darn, it’s been a long day. Do you know what I need?”

“A dictionary?” He offers casually, and can’t hold back a smile when she attempts a weak swat against his arm, “although a thesaurus would probably be better… Hm. A drink? Some pain meds, perhaps? A few hours in one of my very nicest beds? A loyal nursemaid to tend you around the clock?”

She smiles up at him, still attempts to swat him again. He’d be more offended, but she really is so _adorable_ when she’s like this, “add in a hug, and- er…”

“We have ourselves a deal?” He smirks, yet again.

“ _Lex_.”

“It’s what you meant, my dear,” he purrs, but raises his hands apologetically – allows her to step into his arms, and rests his cheek on top of her head despite the lank sweatiness of it. This, he thinks, is perhaps the closest representation of what lo- affection is – holding somebody close to you, no matter how disgusting they are at any given moment “…Clara?”

“Mmmph?”

“Did-?” …Trusting them, no matter how unsettled you may feel, “nothing. Do you feel up to walking a short distance?”

Clara blinks, yawns, sways a little in the circle of his arms – and he feels all the lingering remnants of his suspicion, his mild disgust, fade away like they were never there in the first place, “I feel up to staggering, good enough?”

“No,” he smiles, lifts her gently in his arms and carries her there himself.


End file.
